


Eddie Kaspbrak Versus The Feelings

by MellytheHun



Series: The Time Richie Got The Flu [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Bad Flirting, Caretaking, Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flirting, Fluff, Friendship, Horny Teenagers, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Moron 4 Moron, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Eddie Kaspbrak, Pining, Richie Tozier is a Little Shit, Sick Character, Sickfic, Soft Richie Tozier, Teenagers, cursing, sexual conversation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 11:02:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21053327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellytheHun/pseuds/MellytheHun
Summary: When Eddie returns to the Tozier household after school the next day, it’s with less supplies, but a lot more nerves. His hand shakes on the doorknob as he lets himself in, despite all his deep-breathing.When he lets himself in, as he did the day before, he’s glad to find Richie out of bed, sitting in the living room, with a bit more color in his face, and absolutely no memory of the night before.





	Eddie Kaspbrak Versus The Feelings

**Author's Note:**

> BITCH I'M BACK. BY POPULAR DEMAND
> 
> but really, I got inundated with requests for a follow-up to the sick!fic, and the follow-up got so long, that this is now a 3-part series. So. Here's part 2 for the time being. I'll get to editing part 3 in the next few days, and there will be smut in part 3, so, buckle in.
> 
> TW: germs, illness, mentions of food, eating, brief descriptions/mentions of panic attacks, and an underage character, high on NyQuil, saying a LOT, explicitly sexual things being said by a minor (they're sixteen in this) and anything else I gotta tag or warn for, please tell me (politely) in the comments!

When Eddie returns to the Tozier household after school the next day, it’s with less supplies, but a lot more nerves. His hand shakes on the doorknob as he lets himself in, despite all his deep-breathing.

When he lets himself in, as he did the day before, he’s glad to find Richie out of bed, sitting in the living room, with a bit more color in his face, and absolutely no memory of the night before.

None.

“When did you leave?” Richie asks curiously, munching on leftover Virus-Killing-Pasta.

At seeing Richie eat well, and moreover, something Eddie had personally made him, his heart thuds, enough to be seen through his shirt.

He rubs at his chest self-consciously, trying to smother the feeling.

“You don’t remember me leaving?”

“Nah, I got fucked up on NyQuil, man,” Richie laughs, his throat sounding rough and scratchy still, “I remember taking the NyQuil, and like, seeing my lamp? And then I woke up at like two, to piss an actual gallon of urine, and then I went back to bed, and I woke up at noon. So, yeah. I think it’s cause I so rarely take cold medicine, it always hits me really hard. Did I make a complete ass of myself?”

“You do that every day, completely sober, Richie.”

“Okay, I walked into that one.”

“You did.”

“See?” Richie complains, gesturing vaguely downward at himself, “I’m not operating on all cylinders yet.”

“Well, you look a ton better,” Eddie compliments, straightening his cough mask, and snapping on his gloves, “Let’s get a temperature, okay?”

“Ugh,” Richie groans, but that’s all the fight he puts up - his gratitude seems much too big a thing to be overtaken by his distaste for being poked and prodded at.

Still looking put-upon, though, he opens his mouth wide for Eddie, so Eddie can get a good look at his tonsils and throat.

“The swelling and redness have definitely gone down. Some more veggies, rest, and medicine, and you’ll be back on your feet by tomorrow morning, Tozier. I’m sure.”

“Thanks, Dr. K,” Richie says with a flirtatious smirk.

“Shut up,” Eddie orders softly, offering the sanitized end of the thermometer to Richie’s dry, full lips.

Diligently, Richie shuts his mouth around the thermometer, waits a beat, and then gestures around his own mouth, then at Eddie’s with a quizzical expression.

Eddie understands that Richie is asking him why he’s wearing the mask.

“I think you have a strain of the flu virus,” Eddie explains, “So, you might be feeling better now, but you’re usually still contagious for three to four days after symptoms first begin to show, and two days before they show up. First two days passed, obviously, but then your symptoms hit you like a truck, which is the beginning of the countdown. So, you’re still contagious til, like, Friday. And since the flu is airborne, mostly, I’m taking precautions.”

Seeming just a touch sad, Richie nods his comprehension.

“It’s not - uhm - I’m not scared of _ you _ , or anything, Richie,” Eddie reassures him, feeling suddenly sympathetic for his friend, “Just, if _ I _ go down, then there’s no one to help _ you _. So, I gotta make sure I keep the germs away.”

The thermometer beeps, and glad for the distraction, Eddie pulls it away for examination.

“Just as I thought! You’re at ninety-nine today. Your fever’s steadily dropping. We’ll get you back in working order super soon.”

“You’re too good to me, Eds.”

“You’re damn right, I am,” Eddie mutters back, his smile evident in his voice.

“I truly do not deserve you,” Richie pins on.

“You truly do not.”

“At all?”

“At all.”

“Not even a little?!”

“Nope,” Eddie confirms, still smiling enough that Richie can see it, “Not even a little.”

Once he’s put the thermometer away, he moves toward the laundry room.

The last of his wash the day before were Richie’s sheets, and he announces his intention to go to Richie’s room, disinfect it again, and put on fresh, clean sheets.

“There’s no way it’s a good idea to do that every day,” Richie argues, “I mean, those are my only two sets of bed sheets, Eds. They’re gonna get run through soon.”

“It’ll be fine. We need to keep the germ levels down in the house, especially where you’re sleeping, because your immune system is already compromised. Clean bedsheets are a must. Once you’ve gone back down to a ninety-eight point six temperature, you’ll change them a third time, and that’ll be it.”

“A third time?!”

“Ugh, just sit there!” Eddie orders him, marching up the stairs with the clean sheets piled up in his arms, “I’ll be back to feed you fresh, warm food shortly.”

“By hand, I hope?”

“No!”

“But I wanna get a chance to lick those fingies!”

Eddie makes a face down the stairs, even though Richie can’t see him from where he is, and shouts back, “you’re so gross!”

“But I bet you’re scrumptious, Eds! Your fingers will be sugary sweet, just like that winning charm of yours!”

“Fuck you, Richie!”

All he gets back is the boisterous, (if a little bit scratchy) chime of Richie’s laughter following him up the stairs, which he shakes his head at disapprovingly, but if he’s smiling, he’s the only one who’ll know, so there’s no harm done.

Besides their normal banter filling the air here and there, the afternoon is quiet, for the most part; Eddie compulsively cleans when the urge strikes, he changes his gloves about five times, ‘airs out,’ the house by opening all the windows, and turning all the fans on, and sees to it that Richie bathes, and changes into clean clothes, 

Richie whines after him everytime he gets up, though, complaining that Eddie has already done enough, but Eddie tells him that he ‘did all the hard work,’ the day before, that the rest was easy, so long as Richie didn’t badger him through it.

Though there was no agreement struck, exactly, Richie honored the request, and let Eddie putz around like a mother hen.

It’s peaceful, almost. 

It’s familiar in a way that Eddie wonders how he’d know - after all, he’s never seen a relationship quite like his and Richie’s. 

Perhaps it’s familiar in the way that any daydream can be; if his mother had a husband to worry over, this may be what his own house would look like from time to time, and so it feels familiar in that make-believe way. 

The smell of Richie’s body wash in the fog escaping the bathroom, the scent of his laundry detergent on the clothes so soft to Eddie’s hands, and all of it mixing with the smells of disinfectant, and plain health foods wafting through the house. 

The breaking up of stale air by dusting with practiced wrists that he swears Richie watches more closely than he needs to, and then with fans, and cool, fresh air from the outside peeling back layers of days of sickliness. 

The sound of Richie’s chuckling from the living room couch, that ‘_ whoosh _,’ sound that the sheets make when he whips them out, and then lays them down over Richie’s bed for him, Eddie correcting someone on the television and having Richie ask him how he could possibly know more than the host, the kettle coming to a low whistle from the kitchen for their tea…

It’s very domestic, he supposes.

He wonders if it’s okay that he’s unbothered by that; adventure and fun with the Losers will always be there modus operandi, but sometimes it’s nice, Eddie thinks, to have Richie all to himself, quiet, still, and in need of only what Eddie can give him.

A hand flies up to his mouth in horror.

He runs out of the kitchen, and into the threshold that separates the hall from the living room, skidding on his socks to a halt.

Richie’s hair is still wet from his shower, and his eyes are wide, and owlish through his glasses when he blinks up at Eddie from the couch.

“Eds? What’s goin’ on?”

“Am I… am I like my mother?”

“What?”

Eddie feels like his entire chest crumples from the center, out, and he’s suddenly fumbling for his inhaler, panic rising.

“Whoa, whoa, Eddie - Eds, what’s happening? Tell me what’s going on,” Richie requests, getting up from the couch to confront him.

“Oh my God,” Eddie wheezes out, “Oh my God. I’m the worst - oh my God, I’m just like her, Richie! Richie, I’m doing exactly what she does!”

“What? Clean?”

“No, asshole!” Eddie argues, frustrated, but ultimately unconcerned with the fact that Richie is now touching his exposed wrists, “I’m - ! - fuck! Fuck! I’m doing this thing she does! This - like, I’m enjoying this, I’m enjoying taking care of you, cause I know no one else will - can - take care of you better than me, and it feels good to have you alone with me, like this, to like - have all your attention - which is selfish, and weird, and it’s exactly what she does with me, it’s -”

“Hey, hey,” Richie intercepts calmly, moving into Eddie’s space, petting his wrists with his thumbs, “Deep breaths. Come on.”

Begrudgingly, Eddie listens, breathing in to his diaphragm once, twice, three times, and then looking back into Richie’s eyes.

“Important question here,” Richie begins, “and know that no matter what your answer is, we’re still best friends.”

“Okay... “

“Do you want me to get better? Or you want me to stay sick?”

“I want you to get better, obviously!” Eddie snaps, “What sort of -”

“Why? If I could stay like this forever, wouldn’t you want that, if you like it so much?”

“What?” Eddie all but shrieks, “God! No! Richie, you’re fucking insufferable like this! You’re so fuckin’ whiny, you annoy me in and out of every room, you bitch and moan about everything I do for your own health, and I _ hate _ that you don’t feel good, I _ want _ you to feel better, and it’s actually sunny out today, and we’re missing out on it, cause you’re -”

At the knowing smile growing on Richie’s face, Eddie’s heart rate declines.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Richie responds, smiling sweetly at him, “Eddie, listen, I think you like taking care of me, because you’re kind, and you’re smart, and this is a weird muscle you never get to flex in front of anyone - it’s natural to wanna show off every once in a while. And you know what? You scared the flu right the fuck outta me. You came in here, Big Doctor K, kicked my flu in the ass, and you’re a total badass.”

“I am?” 

“Yes!” Richie laughs jovially, “Fuck yeah! Eddie! Man! You hate germs, you hate this shit, but… you care enough about me to dive headfirst into a biohazard zone, clean the shit out of it, and then take care of my dumb, bitchy ass. And not once! Twice! You’re such a tough motherfucker, you faced your phobia, and then came back for seconds! Dude, you’re my fuckin’ hero.”

Smiling meekly, chest feeling repaired, Eddie asks, “really?”

“Yeah, really!” Richie assures him, “You’re not your mom, Eddie. And, honestly, there are a lot of jokes I could make right now that -”

“Richie, I swear to God -”

“_But I won’t_,” Richie says defensively, “cause I see that this actually scared you.”

Eddie hangs his head in some type of agreement.

“You’re not your mom, Eddie. Really. Your mom… I dunno. Maybe her heart was in the right place once, but it’s not anymore, and she’s like, ten different kinds of fucked up. You’re good, though, Eddie. She’s, uh… she’s bad at loving you,” Richie adds with a shrug, looking away from Eddie’s face, “In a different way, though. Like, different than how my parents are bad at it with me. She’s bad at loving you, but you’re… you’re really good at loving. So. You’re not her. You’re, like… you’re full of good love, Eddie. There’s nothing wrong with your love.”

Shocking them both, Eddie lunges forward without any thought, and hugs Richie tightly, eliciting a soft, “oof!”

“Wow. Okay, hi,” Richie murmurs gently into Eddie’s hair, wrapping his long, lanky arms around him. 

Eddie smiles into Richie’s chest, breathes in that familiar body wash, and detergent, and tells him, “thank you. Thank you for that, Richie.”

“Anytime, Spaghetti.”

When Eddie pulls away, there’s a quivering, low-grade anxiety buzzing under his skin, but it doesn’t escalate. 

He thinks if he keeps deep-breathing, and maybe changes shirts, the fear of Richie’s germs will be manageable, and so that’s what he does, but even as he does, he doesn’t feel weak, or cowardly. 

He keeps hearing Richie in his head, telling him he’s a badass, and while, on any given day, he’s more inclined to believe he’s a coward, for this moment, Richie Tozier’s word is the only gospel truth. And it makes Eddie feel like a million bucks.

He makes them dinner, openly refuses to hand-feed Richie, does some dishes, then he and Richie drink tea on the couch, while half-watching The Tonight Show. It’s comfortable, it’s sweet, and Eddie sits closer to Richie than he would any other person he knew to be sick, and potentially still contagious - in fact, he’s downright calm for most of it. 

Once he hears a yawn escape Richie, Eddie takes note of the time, and insists that Richie take his medicine, and get into bed - that he ought to have been in bed hours ago, and Eddie can’t be sure where his own vigilance went.

He’s usually much better about this type of thing, but somehow, he got distracted. 

Richie seems more excited about getting high on NyQuil again, than anything else, but Eddie humors him, and follows him up to his room, sitting on his bed, and waiting for him to come back from brushing his teeth.

Feeling fidgety, Eddie gets up off the bed, and wanders over to Richie’s desk, so he can poke around some of Richie’s school binders, wondering if, perhaps, he ought to have helped Richie pick up on school work today, rather than loaf about. He’s wondering if he ought to bring out his notes tomorrow, but he becomes distracted from that train of thought by Richie’s lovely handwriting.

He’s never had reason to look at Richie’s notes before, as he always thought himself a better note keeper, but it seems to him that Richie’s actually quite diligent, and neat.

“You okay in there?” Eddie calls after a few moments of looking down detailed bullet points on the French revolution.

“I can’t get the smell of garlic out of my fuckin’ mouth!” Richie yells back, as though blaming Eddie.

“I’m proud of all the garlic you ate! I wish you a many, healthy fart tonight, Richie, I really do!”

“Fuck you!”

Eddie snorts to himself, flipping another page of looseleaf, and finding written, plainly, clearly;

Edward Kaspbrak

Richard Tozier

Richard Kaspbrak-Tozier? Bleh

Edward Kaspbrak-Tozier? Meh

Richard Tozier-Kaspbrak? NO

Edward Tozier-Kaspbrak? Not exactly an improvement

Richard Kaspbrak? Ok

Edward Tozier? ✓ YES

Eddie Tozier

Mr. & Mr. Tozier

Mr. Richard and Edward Tozier

Richie and Eddie Tozier

“God, I hate using mouthwash.”

Eddie slams the binder cover down, face feeling hot, and heart thumping away like a rabbit’s foot against his ribcage.

“What?”

Richie grimaces, scrubbing a hand over his face exhaustedly, “I had to use the fuckin’ mouthwash to finally get that garlic stink out of my mouth. You okay? You look… weird.”

“Weird? Me? Fuck you. You look weird. Like, all the time. You’re the weird one. Looking. With your face. All of it.”

“Right,” Richie mumbles tiredly, already climbing into his bed, “I mean, you’re not wrong, so. Anyway, isn’t it time for me to get loopy, and sleep like the dead? Bring on the weird, lucid dreams, man, let’s do this thing.”

Richie definitely notices the way Eddie’s hands shake as he pours out the NyQuil, but he doesn’t say anything about it directly, exactly.

“Hey, I…” Richie pauses to swallow a lump in his throat, then finishes, “I know this… all this is hard for you. You really are a badass. I know… I mean, this has been crazy helpful. Like, if you hadn’t shown up yesterday, I genuinely believe I’d be plastered to this mattress with sweat, barf bag to the right, still waiting out the fever. It was really, really nice of you to do all this for me. I just don’t want you to feel pressured to keep at it, okay? Like, there’s tons of leftovers, and you said I should be more myself by tomorrow, so... “

It occurs to Eddie that Richie thinks the shaking in his hands is about restraining his anxiety over the germ exposure. 

“It’s not -”

Eddie very nearly says, ‘it’s not a problem,’ or, ‘it’s not any trouble,’ but it _ is _ . That’s what’s so _ odd _ about it all. For anyone else, this labor would be intensive, undeserved, and unrewarding, but it’s different for Richie.

For Richie, the trouble is worth it.

So much more than worth it.

“Quit worrying, okay? Maybe on Friday you’ll be back enough to yourself that we can all meet up at Bill’s.”

“I miss Big Bill. Does he still stutter these days?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, “you’re so fucking dramatic.”

“He was a good lad when I knew ‘im, aye, a good lad.”

“Oh my God, shut up, and please take these drugs.”

“That might be my favorite sentence anyone has ever said to me!” Richie exclaims cheerfully, throwing back the shot of NyQuil, and then gagging over the nauseating flavor.

He washes it down with cold water, puts his glasses on his bedside table, and then lies down in his bed, turning over onto his stomach.

“You’ll stay til I fall asleep?” Richie asks, muffled by his pillow.

Perched on the edge of Richie’s bed, Eddie nods, and tells him, “yeah. I’ll, uh - yeah. I’ll stay. Lemme just run downstairs quick - I’m gonna leave some of my school notes with you, so you can catch up tomorrow, okay?”

“Mmf.”

When Eddie returns, Richie says nothing, which is fine by him; he hums a tune to himself, and sorts his notes. It’s so quiet, really, in the first ten minutes he’s back in the room, he could swear Richie’s already asleep, but then, without picking up his head, Richie slurs out, “hey, Billy Boy.”

“Not Bill,” Eddie sighs, delicately taking his notes out of his binder rings to align them beside Richie’s corresponding binders.

His back is turned to the bed, not that it would matter, as Richie is facedown in his pillow, drooling and talking mostly to himself, or possibly to a Dream Bill that he is half-imagining as being there.

“Hey, Bill - ‘member when’s the last time we talked about Eds?”

Eddie’s shoulders stiffen up by his ears, which are burning.

“You talk about me to Bill?” Eddie asks quietly.

“An’ I told ya what I was thinkin’ about, and like - all the - anyway, those shorts, man. The l’il red’uns? _ Unh_, _ God_. Y’know when’ee wears ‘em with that stupid, yellow sweater thasss like five times too big for’im? All that leg, man. It makes me wanna, like…”

Devious curiosity overruling his common sense, Eddie turns his head over his shoulder just slightly, enough for his voice to carry to Richie when he asks, “... it makes you want to what?”

“Get m’hands all up his fuckin’ sweater, drag those fuckin’ shorts down, ‘n just fuckin’ _plow’im_, you know?”

Eddie covers his mouth with both hands, alarmed at how hot his own face is.

“God. He’s so fuckin’ cute. I wanna kiss his face, ‘n like hold his hand ‘n shit, but also… also wanna plow’im. Wanna bend’im over a desk, fuckin’ eat’im out, finger’im like a tease, ‘n jus _fuc_ -”

“Wow! Okie dokie! Rich! Richie!” Eddie stammers, flailing his hands around, as if that will do anything about his neck and face burning like a live fire.

At the crystal clear sound of Eddie’s voice, Richie turns over onto his back, can’t seem to open his eyes, but says, “Eddie! Eddie Spaghetti! You didn’t lemme lick your fingers.”

“No, I did not,” Eddie agrees, shaky hands planting themselves on his hips.

“Wanna lick you everywhere. Ye’should let me lick you.”

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie curses, pressing down on his own crotch, which, in his head, he likens to a dog, as it rises to attention as soon as it appears to know it’s being spoken about.

“Think he’ll still like me?”

“Huh?”

Richie pauses long enough that Eddie thinks he’s finally fallen asleep, but then Richie says again, “think he’ll still like me? Even if’ee finds out I like'im like that?”

_Maybe he still thinks I’m Bill_, Eddie considers.

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“I dunno. I jus love’im so much. Don’t wanna lose’im.”

“So,” Eddie starts, nearing the bed, “you’d let Eddie go? Like… you’re not gonna tell him?”

“Fug’no,” Richie murmurs, curling onto his side, “I love’im. I don’wanna chase’im away. Keep’im. Keep’im close tuh me. Close as he’ll lemme.”

Eddie brushes back some of Richie’s wild curls, but Richie doesn’t stir.

“You’re an idiot, and a lightweight, Richie Tozier.” 

Richie’s eloquent response is a deeply unattractive snore, at which all Eddie can do is laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> Part 3 will be the conclusion, and up on AO3 soon <3


End file.
